


Trading No Secrets

by feathershollyandgolly



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - James Bond Fusion, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Canon Era, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, M/M, Nazi Hunter Erik Lehnsherr, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26641324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feathershollyandgolly/pseuds/feathershollyandgolly
Summary: When Charles first meets Erik, he is in pursuit of a target with intel MI6 is not keen on sharing. Not with Erik—a Mossad-employed freelancer who shows up in places he is not supposed to. Not even with Charles—their own agent, who starts knowing things he should not know.Buildings set ablaze, the hellfire grows. Apparently, they have more in common than they thought.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Trading No Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I technically wrote this for the Big Bang but it was late ;-; so here is half a spy fic! Stay on the lookout for the other half, it’s coming soon :0

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles has terrible instincts and a natural curiosity that overrides all logic. Erik hunts nazis.

There is a serpent wrapping itself in a vice grip around the underbelly of Europe. A ghost that refuses to die, dragging through the dirt for the sheer joy of watching nations writhe. Charles sees it in whispers behind closed doors, through pledges hissed between rotting teeth.

It’s August, 1963, and Venice is packed to the brim with tourists. It may be two decades since the war, but apparently, not everyone has the memo.

The heat and collective movement of vacation-tanned bodies makes navigation a painful, slimy affair. Contacts are difficult enough. Chases on foot are far worse.

Charles barges into an empty house, dust scattering into his eyes and filling the parched air. Shots fly back, frantic and sloppy. They all miss. Sunlight streams in through gaps in the boarded windows. It is hardly enough to aim properly.

He ducks behind the staircase until the creaking floorboards above go silent. The target is cornered.

Charles swings past the banister and pushes into the second floor hallway. Past empty rooms. Past the final door, brass knob smacking against the wall as he kicks it in.

“Now,” says Charles, tugging at the safety. “I suggest you drop your weapon and come with me.”

Another shot whizzes past him, ricocheting off a desk. Charles takes a second before shooting the target in what he assumes is his foot. The target screams.

“Or rather, demand,” Charles mutters. “Unless you’d like to bleed out in a foreclosed Venitian townhouse.”

The rasping man goes quiet, the sudden stillness forcing Charles to move closer. It’s near impossible to see through the darkness, but he hones in on a faint outline.

Apparently a shot in the foot goes a long way.

“Well?” Charles asks.

Someone steps into the light.

Someone who looks very much _not_ like the target Charles was just pursuing.

A thump resounds against wood-panel flooring, indicating the head of a now incapacitated foe hitting the ground. The newcomer was apparently gripping the target by the neck, and had decided to let go.

“Ah,” Charles exclaims, at a loss for words (for once).

It’s a man, slender, precise, and dressed in all black despite the heat. Charles inches to the right, circling. The man mirrors his action. Charles notes, to his disgruntlement, the well-trained movements of a fellow spy.

“Who the hell are you?” The man narrows his eyes, his gaze a turbulent storm of grey.

“X,” says Charles. “MI6. I need to take this man in for questioning.”

The man seems to smile at that, though it’s clearly ironic. “Ah. British intelligence, of course. Here to save the day, as always.”

“And what should I call you?” asks Charles, making a point in keeping his gun still raised.

“Mossad calls me Max. I’m taking this man into the custody of the Israeli government, for trial.”

The two stop pacing. Charles lowers his gun.

“Oh. I see. I...had that,” Charles says as Max kicks at the target.

“Well, he’s unconscious now anyway,” says Max, raising his hands in feux surrender. “All yours.”

Charles does not trust the gesture in the least. Max’s attempts at looking nonthreatening are the equivalent of a shark trying to pass as a dolphin.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t undermine my work,” Charles huffs, taking a glance at the body on the floor. “The target probably has a concussion now.”

“You shot him in the foot, anyway. I’m not sympathetic in the least,” Max snorts. “Now, who gets him first?”

“MI6, of course. And shooting someone in the foot doesn’t give them possible brain damage. ”

“Wouldn’t it be better to know the man is in _our_ custody? I’m sure you could arrange a...visit.”

“We’d prefer to have a closer line of communication with the target.”

“Well—”

“Can you two stop arguing?” the target asks, apparently having awoken from the noise.

Charles kicks the target in the stomach. Max is admittedly right about the whole lack of sympathy thing.

“Quite frankly, I don’t care what happens to this pig as long as justice is dealt sooner rather than later,” says Max with a glint in his eyes. If Charles knew any better, he’d say that it was murderous.

“...Right,” Charles replies. “We’ll take him, then. MI6 will send the Israeli government an agreement to bring him back right when we’re done... _talking_.”

“If we don’t hear anything, I’ll be seeing you.”

“Then hopefully you’ll get the message,” says Charles, smiling.

Max doesn’t smile, but he raises his eyebrows to suggest amusement. The silence between them is terse.

“Well, then.” Charles takes the limp target and hoists him up. “We’ll cross paths again one day, I’m sure. I’ll be looking forward to more plan foiling.”

He turns around, waiting for a response. Max is already gone.

-

“Were you going to tell us that you were spotted?”

This is the first thing M asks when Charles enters the briefing room. She isn’t one to start with greetings.

“Oh, right,” Charles grimaces, moving past the chair he would have sat in to stand face-to-face with M. “I tried to be amicable. If Mossad is upset with us, I’m afraid I might have something to do with that.”

M’s brow twitches. The monitors against the wall glow with a sense of urgency, illuminating the otherwise windowless room. Surrounding agents shrink away from the signs of an angered handler.

“I don’t appreciate your dishonesty,” she says. “When MI6 asks for a report, we want a _report_. We can’t afford any information to slip past us, especially information about foreign associations.”

“I reported that Mossad was requesting the latest target after we questioned him,” defends Charles.

M’s lips thin as she wordlessly flicks on the monitor behind her. Small photos dance across the view, including those identifying the other spy Charles had bumped into.

“You seemingly failed to mention one _Max Eisenhardt_ working on your case,” she hisses.

Charles frowns. “So?”

“So,” says M, gesturing to displayed images of the target’s swift capture, “they wouldn’t be sending someone so efficient unless they wanted this man dead.”

“The bastard does deserve it,” Charles admits, crossing the room to study the report in further detail. Apparently there was a hidden camera attached to him somewhere.

“Language, X. Deserving or not, had you not been there, we wouldn’t have our source,” M points out.

“We have plenty of intelligence,” reasons Charles. “I don’t know what this one knows that the others wouldn’t.”

M turns to him sharply. “You aren’t here to ask questions.”

Charles knows he isn’t allowed to ask _why_ MI6 requests certain intelligence, or sends him on certain missions. He’s half tempted to, but then, he has always been naturally curious. It’s a shame he was recruited before he could finish grad school and quench that need to investigate.

“Make sure Eisenhardt doesn’t come close next time,” M demands cooly. “He’s a freelancer. He won’t care if his targets are dead or alive, and he certainly won’t care for anyone who gets in his way.”

Charles nods. “Yes Ma’am.”

“That is all. Dismissed.”

“I—”

“Dismissed, X,” M shifts to face the screens. “Don’t make me repeat it.”

Charles stares at the back of her head, fighting the urge to remain. Making a fuss won’t help. He isn’t one for pointless confrontation.

“Right,” he says, stepping away.

It hits him as he moves to leave. He freezes.

“X? Are you well?”

There’s a scent—bitter like sulfur and far stronger than it should be. Something is very, _very_ wrong. He glances at M.

The warning on his lips dies as the room erupts into flames.

A pitched whine rattles his ears. Wince. Close eyes. The ground rushes up to meet him. It’s hot, stifling and close. There is a scream, not his. Sulfur. Burning.

Charles opens his eyes and forces himself to _move._

As heat radiates off of the walls, he struggles to stand against the suffocating air. Smoke stings at his throat with every breath. The shrill noise fades into panicked voices.

No one in the room is the attacker. It’s as though whoever did it had literally popped into existence. But that isn’t possible.

“X!” a voice orders from the crowd. “ _Go_!”

It’s M, clutching her side and glaring with a fury matching the chaos around her. She says it again. Whoever did this cannot leave the building.

Charles takes his cue and runs.

A siren rings out in the distance as agents and handlers rush from the briefing room. Weaving through the maelstrom of escaping bodies, someone moves against the tide. Protocol is evacuation.

The intruder is still inside.

The halls move like a sea, Charles’ vision shaking with the nausea at his throat. Is he supposed to shoot them? With the gun on his belt that he never uses?

Skidding around the corner, he pushes towards the agile shape of his target, who is bounding up the stairs. Interrogation. The assailant is trying to steal prisoners. The newfound mission leaves Charles more determined than ever to _do_ something.

He bursts through the door to the holding cells, seconds after the intruder slips inside.

The scene is all too familiar. A chase through an unsuspecting crowd. A final room. Charles, alone aside from the target with a gun raised.

Max Eisenhardt, staring back at him with a piercing, cool gaze.

“Before you ask, I didn’t set off whatever exploded on the third floor,” Max declares.

Charles keeps his gun drawn, frowning. “Then why are you here?”

“Mossad sent me as intel. I was supposed to retrieve whatever MI6 pried out of the target.” Max directs to one of the cells. “It seems they haven’t found anything.”

“How do you know?” Charles looks to where Max is pointing and blanches. He holsters his gun and inches closer to the room. “Oh, good lord. It’s…”

“Empty,” Max confirms grimly, as though he’s personally disappointed by MI6. “You have an intelligence leak on your hands.”

“So it seems.”

Charles puts a hand to the bars, mouth dry. There’s no way in or out of the room. No sign of forced entry. If someone has the technology to do this, MI6 is in unparalleled danger.

The clatter of footsteps on tile thunders closer. Charles whips around to face the open doorway. It’s M. Followed by a team of guards, all with weapons.

His stomach drops as he realizes where their guns are trained.

“M, this is a misunderstanding!” Charles protests.

“Really? From what I can see it’s a _conspiracy_ ,” M growls, moving fully into the room.

She still clutches her side tightly, blood seeping through her dark blazer. Her other hand is on a revolver.

Charles freezes. The barrel is right between his eyes, cool metal up against his skin.

“Max was sent by Mossad, I’m sure you saw the communication,” Charles pleads.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to think when I see an agent and a freelancer talking behind my back and _nosing their way into classified intelligence,_ ” M hisses back.

She is outright betrayed by the audacity Charles has shown, but she won’t shoot him like this. She has known him for too long.

“You’re bluffing,” Charles states.

M presses the gun harder. “Care to find out?”

“I know for a fact that your gun isn’t loaded.”

“It is.” M pulls the trigger.

A familiar, deafening crack fills the room. The metal runs scalding against his skin. But he is not bleeding. His chest still rises and falls.

The barrel is aimed above his ear.

Charles dives out of the way before M can shoot again, scrambling to his feet and moving away from the guards. She must have moved it on purpose.

The shell of a bullet sits mere feet away from him. He was wrong.

“Detain them,” M orders.

The armed squadron charges forward. Charles backs away.

Someone grabs his arm.

“For fuck’s sake, X!” It’s Max.

Max, who has gotten the skylight open. Who is pushing in front of Charles and gesturing for him to leave while he still can. Who is shielding him.

Charles leaps to the rooftop, stretching a hand out only for Max to shake his head. He mouths that Charles should go.

“You’re going to get yourself killed!” Charles exclaims. “Get the hell up here!”

Charles watches in horror as Max approaches the coming battle and closes his eyes. A series of clicks resound and the world goes still.

There are no gunshots. No screams.

Each and every weapon sits poised by a phantom, fixed on their wielders. The clicks are not the motion of a trigger. They are the sound of artillery wrenched away from the enemy.

A power. An ability. That shouldn’t be possible. Many things that have happened in the past hour shouldn’t be possible.

Charles snaps back into focus as Max pulls himself onto the roof.

“I— you—” Charles stammers.

It’s still quiet below, but he is sure that Max did not shoot anyone. Why is it still quiet?

The sound of helicopter blades pierces the air and Charles cannot think about M or the guards below. Gusts of wind radiate from the rising machine as it looms above him.

“We need to get down from here,” Charles insists.

“Not if this thing is in the way,” Max shoots back.

That’s when Max holds out his hands, and immediately near him now, there’s no mistaking it.

The helicopter _moves._

Not in a way a helicopter is supposed to move. The spinning blades bend with a violent shudder. Metal twists as though gripped by an invisible force, sending the vehicle careening into the Thames.

Max turns to Charles, breathless.

“We’ve been accused of treason,” he says.

“What do you suppose we do?” Charles asks, trying to hide the shake in his voice.

“Run?”

“Good plan.”

A commotion rises from the floor below. M and the guards must have woken from whatever stupor they were in.

Max takes off, hopping over the side of the roof to climb the windowsills to the street. Charles follows suit, swinging down the route he had created years ago, not thinking he would ever need it. A good spy needs a good escape.

The street is packed, traffic steering to see the mess of smoke rising off the building. He hits the asphalt with a thud, hiding among the mess.

“Here,” says Max, waving Charles to a parked car.

He has hotwired the car with nothing but his...mind? No. It isn’t his mind. It’s something far simpler and more innate. The vehicle comes to life with the wave of a hand. Charles almost stops to take a closer look.

Instead, he gets in the passenger seat.

“They’re following us,” Max grunts.

Charles glances at the rearview mirror to see a series of familiar, nondescript cars enter the road.

“I never really liked my job,” Charles admits, sincere.

As the headquarters slip out of sight, Charles stares at the flaming wreckage and wonders where he went so wrong. Max slams on the gas pedal as MI6 vehicles swarm in. Tires screech, burning against the pavement.

“I don’t think it’s the type of job you’re supposed to like,” says Max.

The car takes a sharp turn into a backstreet, ignoring all laws of physics. Max is not a terrible driver in a crisis, but that doesn’t stop Charles from wincing and letting out a string of curses at every bump.

“What _was_ that, anyhow?” Charles grits out, trying to hastily buckle his seatbelt.

“What?”

A bullet ricochets off one of the taillights. Charles draws his weapon and tries to carefully aim for their pursuers’ tires.

“The thing!” exclaims Charles, sticking his head out of the passenger side window as he shoots. “That helicopter— whatever it doesn’t matter— _Erik, swerve!”_

Charles doesn’t know where he got the name from, but Max hits the accelerator at the same moment, forcing Charles to swing back into the car.

“And apparently I’m not the only one keeping secrets!” Max snaps. “How the hell do you know my name?”

Charles opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens again as he searches for a good response.

“That’s your name?” he asks. Nailed it.

Max— no, Erik—looks dumbfounded. Then enraged. “Are you trying to play dumb with me?”

“I...actually had no idea. It just slipped out,” Charles protests.

“Dammit,” says Erik. “You specialize in undercover work, you should be better at lying than that.”

“Then do you believe me?”

Erik sends Charles a look that directly translates to ‘not on your life’. Charles supposes it’s a fair opinion when they’re both spies.

“I can make this even. My name is Charles,” says Charles. “I work— worked— for MI6.”

“Again, that could be an alias,” Erik dismisses.

Charles sighs and rubs at his temples. He’s starting to get a headache. “I’m here because it’s the only job that would take me. I told you, I have no especial fondness for MI6.”

“That doesn’t say anything good about you,” Erik points out. A bullet whizzes through the back window and out the front, curving away from the two men in the car entirely.

“And you?” Charles scoffs. “You work independently from your government so you can hunt nazis for sport.”

Erik almost looks amused. “I know you’re trying to criticize me, but everything you said I take as a compliment.”

Charles turns around to the broken back window, moving to deter the calvary by shooting at their tires once more. Erik lets out a dry huff of annoyance, as though not wanting to give yourself a bodycount was a weakness.

The car following them skids off the road, slamming into the guardrail with a sickening crunch.

Charles pulls back into his seat. “You weren’t really at MI6 for Mossad, were you?”

Erik’s expression drops. He meets Charles’ scrutiny with his own gaze, refusing to back down. “No.”

“No,” Charles echoes. “You were looking for something.”

“Someone,” Erik corrects, glancing to his left arm, though it is covered with a dark sleeve, “My creator. My enemy.”

“And you thought you’d find the information if you became involved in this operation,” Charles infers. “Mossad wouldn’t give it to you, so you took it upon yourself to look here.”

“Your handler thought you asked too many questions about this case, too,” Erik recollects.

“Not as many as you, I’m sure,” retorts Charles.

“We’re both fugitives,” Erik continues. “We don’t have anywhere to go.”

Charles smiles grimly. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Tell me,” says Erik, the edges of his lips curling upward. “Would you like to know just what MI6 has been keeping from you?”

“You’re not leaving me behind?”

“What’s the point?” Erik asks. “This way, we both get what we want.”

 _As long as you stay out of my way._ It went unsaid, but Charles knows that it’s a partnership of convenience and necessity. Shame, really. Charles suspects they could be friends if they stop pretending to only tolerate one another.

-

Charles has no idea why Erik wants to work with him.

For Charles’ part, MI6 was a job for the sake of making a living. As a young adult he had staged a sort of coup against his family, promptly resulting in him being disowned and disinherited.

His family pretends it was a staged coup. Charles doesn’t see how a coup is comparable to being queer.

MI6 picked him up out of pity, turning a blind eye to any _past_ homosexuality (but draw the line at present). The organization only kept him because Charles has the tendency to know what his targets are thinking, and coaxing information out of them comes naturally.

Charles’ reasons for joining Erik are completely selfish. First, the perfect opportunity to disappear. Secondly, a chance to spite M for turning on him so easily.

(If asked, Charles’ third reason would be that Erik is, unfortunately, devastatingly handsome.)

They have stopped by a foggy shore, surrounded by little more than a cliffside and the sea. The car, battered as it is, stands a skeleton against the small pebbles of the beach.

Erik pushes a rowboat into the water, beckoning Charles to follow.

“We’re going to row our way to mainland Europe?” Charles asks, incredulous.

“We’re going north,” Erik says, boarding the boat. “I have a safehouse there. They’re more likely to suspect that we’re going south.”

“Good,” Charles replies, embarking after him. “My French is rubbish.”

Erik’s eyes seem to shine, but the heavy air around them makes it difficult to see. Parting the cool haze, the two move through the water with each smooth row of the oars.

“I’m sure you want to ask about my...ability,” Erik mutters. “Now that we aren’t in public, it will be less risky to explain.”

“And you’re alright with me knowing?” Charles asks.

“It couldn’t be prevented,” says Erik, shrugging. “You’re being surprisingly amicable about all of this.”

“It would be inconsiderate if I got touchy about something that is a regular part of your life,” Charles says, gripping the oars firmly as though it will get them to their destination faster. “As bizarre as it is from a rational standpoint, I don’t want to ostracize you either.”

Erik blinks, expressionless and seemingly unsure of how to reply to any form of courtesy.

“Magnetism,” says Erik instead. “I’m not quite sure how it works, but I manifested in my early teens. I can control metals. Manipulate them, move them, sense them.”

Erik pulls a pen from his pocket, clearly lined with steel. He holds it up, looking directly at Charles before he lets it go.

Charles waits for the pen to fall. It hovers in the air in front of him.

“Fascinating,” says Charles, reaching to find the pen held still, even to any physical move to push it.

“My...creator was the one who got to me first,” Erik says, voice low. “I survived the camps. I survived Shaw. But he should not have survived me.”

“Finding him is important to you. Revenge is important to you,” Charles says.

“Justice,” Erik corrects.

“Justice.”

Erik takes the pen and pockets it. “Now that we have time to speak, we have a lot to cover.”

“I’ve been accused of treason. You have been accused of spying, which, to be fair, you rightfully have been.”

“True,” Erik says. He pauses, growing pensive.

“What’s wrong?” Charles asked.

“Charles,” Erik murmurs. “I think…”

_I think you’re like me._

Charles hears it clearly, but Erik’s lips do not move. He thinks he’s lost the oars to the water, but he is clutching them harder than ever. His hands have gone numb.

 _If you are listening, say something._ Erik’s voice echoes, a faint warmth at Charles’ mind.

“I’m listening,” Charles whispers.

“Oh.”

Erik is clearly not used to feeling startled. Even less so, comforted. He stares at Charles with a mix of awe and curiosity. Reverence, in a way. Wariness, in another.

Neither of them are rowing anymore. The ocean has calmed into a stillness that parallels glass.

-

Erik unlocks the door to the safehouse—a small cottage somewhere on the Scottish coast. It’s essentially a hut, Charles muses. A layer of grime covers the place as though it hasn’t been touched in months.

Charles has been trying to discern Erik’s mood for the past few hours, but their conversation stagnated after the talk about abilities.

Charles thinks their powers are due to a physical mutation. Erik thinks that whatever the cause may be, he does not want to be under the scrutiny of a microscope. Not now, or ever.

The door closes behind them with a deafening thud. Erik picks up a briefcase sitting next to the couch, seeming to weigh it before sitting down.

“If I tell you everything I know, will you do me the favor of not shuffling through my mind all the time trying to look for it?” asks Erik, moving the lock without so much as touching it.

“You can feel when I enter your mind?”

“A little.” Erik pulls a sealed envelope out of the briefcase. “You just found out you had powers, I doubt finesse is the first thing you consider when using them.”

“I was just trying to figure out how you were. It went quiet for a while.”

Rather than say anything further on it, Erik gestures at the spot on the couch next to him. “Come, sit down.”

Charles watches Erik open the envelope, which has a notable russet stain on the side and a sending address still attached to the back. It seems to have been ripped from the top, leaving the seal intact. A small square of manila cardstock sits inside, clean of old blood.

_Las Vegas. 4._

“The liaison has a membership here,” says Erik, watching Charles study the origins of the envelope itself.

“Liason for what?”

“The organization MI6 is after. The Hellfire Club,” Erik explains. “I’ve been tracking down their leader for the past decade. I stole this off of the sender in Nice.”

“MI6 never told me any of this.”

“They like keeping things from everyone. I’m not surprised,” Erik mutters.

“So we go to this place,” says Charles, reaching to take the card and turn it over in his hands.

He can sense the impression of muttered French and a letter-opener as it drives through someone else’s throat. The memory is Erik’s, he’s sure.

“The receiver is supposed to be a regular,” Erik says. “They communicate with him to gain access to the west coast elite scene, especially in Vegas. If anyone will have more information, it would be someone with an inside on the club that does not have complete loyalty.”

“We can’t just take a plane to Vegas,” Charles notes.

“Not a commercial one, no.”

“You better not get us killed by booking a dilapidated charter,” Charles scowls. “For the record, I hate America, and I hate the heat.”

“Shame. It’s so lovely this time of year.”

“It’s August.”

“Exactly.”

Erik sends him a shark smile. Charles can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not, but this is the first time he has seen the man actually grin.

-

The Las Vegas strip is as alluring as it is loud. Full of grit and self-hatred, lust and glamor all tied into a complicated mess that Charles is not used to having to hear. He pushes through the nausea as he deals with the hotel receptionist.

“They won’t arrive for a few days,” says Erik as Charles hands him a room key.

“No?” Charles asks, unlocking their room.

“The card has a four on it,” Erik points out as they enter together. “I assume that means the fourth of September, which it is not.”

“So we have three days,” says Charles, closing the door and locking it behind them.

“Good for scouting the territory,” says Erik. He inspects the room, checking for wiretaps and cameras.

“Don’t make me think about going outside,” Charles groans, closing the shades.

Erik only moves to peer out of them, muttering to himself about the surrounding buildings.

It doesn’t feel like autumn in Las Vegas. The day is still seething, and the surrounding desert a haze of dry heat. They met about a month ago. Charles has a hard time imagining it.

“We should figure out how to fit in,” Charles suggests.

“I’m more of a glorified assassin,” Erik admits. “Fitting in is your area.”

Charles has nothing but a few changes of clothes in a small suitcase, some cash from the safehouse and his gun. He moves the case under one of the two beds, standing and brushing himself off.

“I’m going to the pool,” he announces.

Erik raises an eyebrow. “With what swimsuit?”

“I’ll buy one,” says Charles. “We brought enough money.”

Erik sends him another smile. It’s just as unsettling as the first time he did it.

“Great idea. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

It takes twenty minutes for Charles to regret his plan. Deeply.

Fitting in is easy. Pretending to be a British socialite with too much money and an interest in American culture did the trick, leaving him just off enough to be there but not enough to stand out.

The pool is the perfect relief against the heat of the day. Cool and allowing Charles to forget about the otherwise scorched nightmare that is Las Vegas weather.

What he does not factor in is the sun, which can burn even when he is in water. Or the bright intensity of the light against white concrete.

Or, worst of all, Erik.

He should have factored in Erik.

Charles treads the water, feeling particularly exposed in nothing but swim trunks as Erik strides over to join him. He has changed into a white collared short sleeve shirt and white shorts, allowing more skin in view than at any of the times Charles has seen him previously.

Charles’ mouth goes dry.

“Not getting in?” Charles asks, taking care to avoid staring at the toned calves at his eyeline.

“I’ll dip my legs in,” Erik replies. He crouches to do just that, somehow managing to do so gracefully.

“You look used to this kind of heat,” Charles says, unsure of what else to talk about.

A couple on the other side of the pool area sit in the shade and coo at each other. A woman sits with a crime novel on the other side. Someone is thinking about snacks. No one is thinking about Charles and Erik aside from Charles and Erik.

“I lived in Israel for a few years. Same climate,” Erik answers. He tilts his head, leaning closer as though trying to figure something out. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing,” Charles hums. “I suppose I just find you fascinating.”

“I’m unique.” Erik sends him another shark smile. “Unlike most people, I will accept this comment from you.”

“Because I don’t see you as a novelty,” Charles suggests.

“Because you see me as an equal.”

“Ah.”

The heat is somehow far more stifling, despite Charles being in the water up to his chest.

Charles is in a different kind of danger than he had expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated!


End file.
